City of Dragons (29 page)

Franklin looked from one woman to the other, bowed, and retreated backward to another room of the house.

She appeared no older than Miranda remembered, her face as smooth as the past she’d wiped clean. Dark hair curly, soft, framing the large eyes and the small mouth, the features that of the pretty girl of yesterday, when women buttoned their shoes and wore hour-glass corsets their lovers loved to unlace, when they spoke in soft tones, and wore their hair upswept, daintily seated on nothing faster than a bicycle.

One hand was holding a half-empty wineglass. Her other, adorned with large rings and dark stones, waved vaguely in the direction of a horsehair chair near the chaise. A bone china teacup with a chinoiserie pattern rested on the tea service tray in front of her.

“Please, Miranda … sit down.”

“I’ll stand.”

The words came out more harshly than she intended, and Dianne opened her eyes very wide, until Miranda felt that she might fall into them.

“Why on earth do you want to make yourself uncomfortable? And I’m sorry to hear, my dear, that you’ve been smoking again. A pity. You have such a lovely voice.”

Miranda swallowed with difficulty, shifted her weight. “This is business, Dianne, or I wouldn’t be here.”

The older woman brought the glass to her lips and sipped, the dark purple of the wine bloodying her small white teeth. Soft Southern cadences dripped from her mouth like acid from a glass pipe.

“Oh, yes, forgive me. I’d almost forgotten how we parted. And still, Franklin made us tea.”

She set the wine down and leaned toward the low table in front of her, pouring from the matching china pot. Miranda smelled the familiar bitter tang, watched the steam from the dark brown liquid rise and envelop her hostess.

“As I said, a pity. You had such promise. If only you’d learned to be a lady … and a real woman. But that, I’m afraid, is beyond you, my dear. You’ll never let anyone in, will you?”

Miranda felt herself, like always, diminish in front of Dianne. Her eyes lost themselves in the Oriental carpet. From outside, the shriek of a car horn penetrated the wall. For a moment she could smell the sea, hear the barkers on Treasure Island. And remember the license in her wallet.

She raised her face to Dianne, and said: “Who I am and what I do and what I become ceased to be your business a long time ago. I didn’t expect to see you again. I’m here because of Betty. And I suggest you ditch the Scarlett O’Hara act and tell me what you know about it.”

Miranda walked to the chair and sat, crossing her legs while watching the other woman unsuccessfully hide her anger. From this distance, the tiny wrinkles glistened with oil in the crevasses, and the hair dye was starting to fade to white along the scalp.

Dianne picked the china cup up carefully. “You were always an ungrateful little bitch. I took you in when you had nothing, were nothing, a sobbing little girl of thirty-one crying over her poor, departed John—”

“Should I knock on door 103, Dianne, and make a citizen’s arrest? No mirrors in jail cells. And they’ll look up your birthday. The real one.”

The older woman quieted, swallowing the rest, the dark eyes sad and reproachful now. “You would, wouldn’t you? After everything. You’ve become hard, Miranda, hardened and cruel. No wonder you walk in here sporting a bruise … and act as though it were a mink stole from Magnin’s.”

Miranda smiled for the first time. “Back to the Brave Little Woman, now, are we? As entertaining as your role changes are, I want information, and the sooner you give it to me, the sooner I leave. Why did Betty go? Besides the obvious.”

Dianne leaned forward, the feathers on her robe lapels waving daintily with the motion, and poured from a small decanter into the teacup. She always needed something to take the tang out.

“That was several months ago. How do you expect me to remem—”

“Six months ago, you said. And you remember every cent ever brought into this house, and I’m sure Betty delivered her share. Why did she quit?”

Dianne stared at the warm brown liquid critically, then drank. She didn’t bother to sip this time.

“She came to me—a Chinese—no parent, no relatives—”

“I’ve heard the philanthropy angle. What did she say?”

“Something about new work. I thought she meant singing, chorus line—something like that. That was my impression, at least. She said she didn’t need to be an escort any longer. That was all.”

“Was she happy about it, excited?”

The decanter was pouring faster, out of the bottle and into the teacup, and down Dianne’s throat. “How the hell should I know? Too much competition these days, especially with the Orientals. New ones in town. Thought maybe she wanted to work for one of her own … not that they’d be as good to her as I was. Ungrateful little bitches. All of you”—she waved her right hand around the room as if pointing out a crowd—“ungrateful little bitches.”

The gentle Southern accent was slipping away. Dianne used to hold her liquor better.

“What about customers? Anyone rough on Betty?”

She shook her head, the jet black ringlets bouncing. “Mostly other Orientals, some white men on the sly. She never complained. Unlike you, she was a professional. Made the customers happy.”

Which meant she made the customers. Dianne gave you the illusion of choice, but her insinuations of what she expected from you—and what, she hoped, her clients could expect from you—were very clear.

Miranda thought a minute, asked: “Was she male only?”

Escorts were provided for both genders, and sometimes the same gender … if the party was in Pacific Heights or Nob Hill, and the price was high enough.

“Hell, yes. I don’t have any Orientals who’ll do drag.”

“All right. She leave a forwarding address, tell you where she was staying?”

The smell of apricot brandy was overwhelming the tea leaves. The older woman’s face was starting to cave in like an overripe piece of fruit. Miranda wanted to leave before the worms crawled out of it.

“Chinatown, I should imagine. Same place I picked her up, last row in a chorus line, scared little thing. But pretty. I invested some time and money into that one.”

Miranda stood, her leg shaking with a pain spasm. It helped clear the miasma that always cloaked and protected Dianne. Red-lit, sweetly scented, it swirled like summer fog, pinwheeling through dreams and fancies and fantasies, crashing back to Earth in an alcoholic haze and bruises on a teenager’s breasts.

Miranda drew a breath, and said: “I hope I never have to see you again.”

Dianne was pouring more brandy, and set the decanter down slowly, leaning back, her eyes narrowed and trained on Miranda’s face.

“You were my biggest loss. Beauty, hell yes, but you’re an empty woman. No fire. Maybe at one time, but not anymore. And one day, honey, you’ll wake up to a cold bed and a hell of a lot of wrinkles, with no money and no one to keep you warm at night. And you’ll wonder where the hell it all went.”

She shook her head, while the ringlets danced.

“It’s gone before you know it. So what’s wrong with making a little money with it? What’s wrong with putting aside a nest egg for the day no one will look at you twice? But you never understood. Because you’re there already. Dead. You’re deader than Betty. Who killed you, Miranda? Who the hell killed you?”

Miranda felt the blood rush to her face. Dianne had already dismissed her, was looking at the decanter again. She turned on her heel, walked through the door, back to the foyer, and into the waiting arms of Duggan.

The handcuffs hurt like hell.

Miranda’s hands were large, and so were her wrists, and Duggan relished fitting them on her, his eyes bright with barely suppressed excitement.

“Think you’re so high and mighty, you and the Mex. Can’t parade around my town, not a fucking chance. You’re getting arrested for solicitation, lady, and you’ll lose your license. Ever hear of the moral turpitude clause?”

He was by himself. No partner. Franklin hovered at a distance, his hands clenched together, unsure what to do. Miranda looked him in the eyes steadily, not giving Duggan the satisfaction of a flinch or a response.

He grabbed the chain in the middle of the cuffs, yanking her viciously toward the door. “C’mon.”

She stumbled, her leg still in pain from earlier, but managed not to fall down. “You’re arresting me for what?”

“You heard me. Pandering. Solicitation. As in prostitute. As in whore.”

Miranda turned back to Dianne’s butler, searching his eyes, hoping he’d remember. “Franklin—please call Rick.”

Duggan snapped her backward with the handcuffs again, making her stumble toward him. “You got nothing to say to the nigger, lady. He your pimp or something? Niggers and whores, always together.”

He slammed his boot down on the floor toward Franklin. “Get your ass back to the kitchen, shine, before I give you some blue to go with the black.”

Franklin left his eyes on the floor, took half a step backward. Duggan yanked on the handcuffs again, and this time Miranda lost her balance. He laughed, holding her body up by the wrists while she dangled, scrambling to get her feet back under her. Her wrists felt sprained, but she didn’t cry out, and righted herself after a few seconds.

Duggan pulled again, not quite as hard. She followed him into the street, her eyes blinking in the sudden shift from dark to light, and to a police car, parked about five hundred feet down the block.

He unlocked the door with one hand, shoved her into the back. She hit the other side of the door with her shoulder, but was able to avoid her cheek. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat, checking her in the rearview mirror.

“What’s wrong, lady? Cat got your tongue? Or don’t you use it unless you get paid?”

Miranda leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes, trying to fight the pain all over her body, the sickening feeling in her stomach.

Maybe Duggan was shadowing her, maybe she was too tired and too beat up to have noticed. But if Franklin phoned Rick—and he remembered which Rick—maybe she could get to her lawyer before Duggan got her alone in an examination room. A whole hell of a lot of ifs. Franklin would have to tell Dianne. She’d help, because it meant her business. And she’d made plenty of payments to the Policemen’s Fund over the years.

The car stopped suddenly, and Miranda lurched forward, hanging on to the handle on the car side.

Duggan turned to look back at her, savoring it. “Time to get out, sweet cakes. You ain’t gonna get no sympathy here.”

She braced herself, while he came around to her side, opened the door, grabbed the chain again, and almost yanked her off her feet. They drew a few looks, but the heads turned quickly away. Just another cop and a whore.

She half-stumbled and half-ran up the stairs to keep pace with him. He led her past the elevator and down the hallway toward the booking area and offices, head high like a triumphant general or a hunter with a dead animal. No sign of Phil. No sign of Gonzales. Collins, the cop who’d questioned her after Eddie Takahashi, walked by and looked her up and down. Then in a low voice to Duggan, said: “About goddamn time.”

No friends at the force.

He kept her in isolation. No food, no water. Came in about every twenty minutes just to stare at her. He slapped her cheek once, the one already bruised, but watching it swell up again must have made him uneasy. So he backed off, put the bright lights on, and made sure there was as little air in the room as possible.

She tried to concentrate on figuring out what time it was. Say 5:15 at the most when Duggan arrested her. She’d been here for probably two hours.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

No clocks in interrogation rooms, nothing to mark the time except for your pain.

If only Franklin called Rick. And remembered the Rick to call. And Rick called Meyer. Duggan wouldn’t let her call anybody.

He’d try to nail her on the moral turpitude clause in the law regulating investigators, even if he couldn’t get the pandering charge to stick. She couldn’t afford to say anything. He’d twist her words like he’d twisted her wrists.

She could see him outside, pacing, peering through the frosted glass, waiting for her to crack before he brought her before a judge.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

She sat up straighter. Fuck the pain. Fuck Duggan. Fuck all the bastards.

Miranda put her hands on the table out flat and heard herself laugh. She’d met Franklin when she started at Dianne’s. He’d improved her table manners, taught her how to mix a julep according to Dianne’s recipe, and once, after a long night and a messy party, sang her an Ethel Waters song …

She laughed again, and Duggan came in, piggish eyes narrowed and suspicious.

“You think this is funny, bitch? Is that it? You ain’t got nobody—hear?”

Miranda stared up at him. Her voice came out soft.

“ ’s wrong, Duggan? Don’t like my face?”

He crossed over, grabbed her hair close to the scalp and pulled, put his mouth to her ear until she could feel his breath burn her skin like steam from a sewer grate.

“Your face ain’t gonna be the same, lady. Not when I get through with you.”

He flung her back toward the table, but she caught her head on her forearms. Let it rest there. Duggan stood over her, breathing hard, drawing out the little air left in the room. Then she heard him leave, banging the door behind him.

Miranda sat back up. She laughed again. Couldn’t stop laughing.

What did I do … to be so black and blue …

She didn’t see him again. Eventually dozed in the chair, propped upright. Opened her eyes when she felt a touch on her shoulder, and saw her attorney, standing in front of her. With Rick and Gonzales.

Franklin.

Rick was holding a glass of water to her lips. “Drink this, Miranda.”

Her lips were dry and cracked. She sipped the water, felt them burn. Drank the glass slowly, savoring it like scotch.

Her voice came out a croak. “What time is it?”

Meyer looked at his pocket watch. “Eight o’clock, sweetheart. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

She looked up at Rick. “I’ve got to meet Bente …”